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Let's try not to be ‘brilliant' this time

Bruce BensonColumnist

Published: Saturday, September 7, 2013 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Friday, September 6, 2013 at 7:56 a.m.

I wanted to do a column on Syria and the reluctance of the Canadian government to enter into the fray. Make no mistake about, it will be a mess. And a standoff with Russia is as desirable as getting a frontal lobotomy immediately after a colonoscopy. (It wouldn't be so bad if the lobotomy came first.)

When the invasion of Iraq took place many years ago, Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien refused to participate, causing animosity between Canada and the U.S.

"It was not sanctioned by the United Nations," Chretien said in defense of his position. I agreed with him, and now we have one heck of a mess. Every time I see a coffin come home with the body of a courageous American man or woman inside it, I get mad. "Beyond words," to quote Stephen Black.

Back in the heady days of the invasion, I wrote a column for another news organization that I directed to the American citizenry, attempting to ease the tensions between these two nations by pointing out the vast number of ways the people of both countries are so very much the same. I wanted to use that column in this space today in light of the situation with Syria, but unfortunately I can't find it. So Syria will have to wait. My wife will be happy.

"Don't write on Syria," she said to me the other day. "You write on a lot of serious issues. Why don't you do something funny?" (Because I'm not that funny?)

I know what she thinks is funny. If I fell down the stairs, she'd laugh her head off. She's done it. But I can't fall down the stairs on these pages, so she'll have to settle for other examples of me falling metaphorically.

I've been writing here for about six months, but you, dear reader, don't really know that much about me. So I'll try to explain something of myself.

I'm brilliant. Yes. I am. I can give you two examples of that.

In 1988, I planned to kayak down the Mississippi River, and my father picked me up at my friend's house in Winnipeg to drive me to Lake Itasca, the headwaters of Old Man River. I was packing my gear in his car when he asked me, "Did you make a list of everything you need so you don't forget anything?"

List? I had never been so insulted! I had been on more than a dozen paddling trips. Who did he think he was talking to?

"Who do you think you are talking to?" I asked indignantly, shaking my head. He shook his own head, and off we went.

About halfway out of the city, I got to thinking that the old boy may not be so stupid. (He thinks that about me, so it's only fair.) I did a mental checklist to see if I remembered all my gear, and slowly, reluctantly, came to the conclusion, the horrifying conclusion, that I had left both my tent and sleeping bag under my friend's bed. My heart was completely sunk.

I was so loath to tell Pops that I had forgotten those two items so very crucial to the expedition that I racked my brain for some way to carry on without them. Maybe I could find a blanket and a tarp. Maybe it wouldn't rain. Maybe … regretfully, there was no way to do it, and I had to admit it.

"Ughhh, Dad …"

He laughed and shook his head. I thought that might be the end of it, but to this day, 25 years later, when I introduce him to someone new, he relates the story within five minutes. It begins with "This guy …" and ends with laughter all round, except for me.

Oh yes, I'm brilliant. My brother is just as brilliant as me. Fishing on the lake one day, he noticed a bunch of blue corks bobbing around the prop of our outboard engine. He was driving, and he called me to the back of the boat.

"Hey Bruce, look at this," he said. We both looked at the prop and the corks, nobody looking at where we were going. "Where do think they're coming from?" We had yet to take the boat out of gear.

"I have no idea," I told him. And I didn't. It took us two geniuses five minutes to discover we were running along our own net, destroying it. Brilliant. (Is it possible I have the definition of that word wrong?)

In the interest of sharing something more about myself, I have to admit that I'm not the tallest man, at least not as tall as my sons. It doesn't bother me that I'm shorter than the lads — no Napoleonic complex for me.

Who cares how tall I am? When I was a young, single man, every girlfriend I ever had assured me that size is not all that important. I thought it was kinda strange that they all said almost exactly the same thing.

"Don't worry, Bruce, " they would sigh. "Size isn't all that important, anyway."

I certainly felt reassured about my height.

Yeah, brilliant.

Countries can be just as brilliant. It's a terrifying thought that a decision to go to war could be a wrong decision because the outcome can be so horrific. There must be another way. Look under the bed, take the boat out of gear, it doesn't matter how big you are.

The geniuses who run all the countries involved in the Syria horror show need to find a peaceful way. Let's not fall down the stairs. It's hardly funny.

Bruce Benson is a Canadian writer and journalist who makes Hendersonville his home. Reach him at bensonusa@ hotmail.com.

<p>I wanted to do a column on Syria and the reluctance of the Canadian government to enter into the fray. Make no mistake about, it will be a mess. And a standoff with Russia is as desirable as getting a frontal lobotomy immediately after a colonoscopy. (It wouldn't be so bad if the lobotomy came first.)</p><p>When the invasion of Iraq took place many years ago, Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien refused to participate, causing animosity between Canada and the U.S.</p><p>"It was not sanctioned by the United Nations," Chretien said in defense of his position. I agreed with him, and now we have one heck of a mess. Every time I see a coffin come home with the body of a courageous American man or woman inside it, I get mad. "Beyond words," to quote Stephen Black.</p><p>Back in the heady days of the invasion, I wrote a column for another news organization that I directed to the American citizenry, attempting to ease the tensions between these two nations by pointing out the vast number of ways the people of both countries are so very much the same. I wanted to use that column in this space today in light of the situation with Syria, but unfortunately I can't find it. So Syria will have to wait. My wife will be happy.</p><p>"Don't write on Syria," she said to me the other day. "You write on a lot of serious issues. Why don't you do something funny?" (Because I'm not that funny?)</p><p>I know what she thinks is funny. If I fell down the stairs, she'd laugh her head off. She's done it. But I can't fall down the stairs on these pages, so she'll have to settle for other examples of me falling metaphorically.</p><p>I've been writing here for about six months, but you, dear reader, don't really know that much about me. So I'll try to explain something of myself.</p><p>I'm brilliant. Yes. I am. I can give you two examples of that.</p><p>In 1988, I planned to kayak down the Mississippi River, and my father picked me up at my friend's house in Winnipeg to drive me to Lake Itasca, the headwaters of Old Man River. I was packing my gear in his car when he asked me, "Did you make a list of everything you need so you don't forget anything?"</p><p>List? I had never been so insulted! I had been on more than a dozen paddling trips. Who did he think he was talking to?</p><p>"Who do you think you are talking to?" I asked indignantly, shaking my head. He shook his own head, and off we went.</p><p>About halfway out of the city, I got to thinking that the old boy may not be so stupid. (He thinks that about me, so it's only fair.) I did a mental checklist to see if I remembered all my gear, and slowly, reluctantly, came to the conclusion, the horrifying conclusion, that I had left both my tent and sleeping bag under my friend's bed. My heart was completely sunk.</p><p>I was so loath to tell Pops that I had forgotten those two items so very crucial to the expedition that I racked my brain for some way to carry on without them. Maybe I could find a blanket and a tarp. Maybe it wouldn't rain. Maybe … regretfully, there was no way to do it, and I had to admit it.</p><p>"Ughhh, Dad …"</p><p>He laughed and shook his head. I thought that might be the end of it, but to this day, 25 years later, when I introduce him to someone new, he relates the story within five minutes. It begins with "This guy …" and ends with laughter all round, except for me.</p><p>Oh yes, I'm brilliant. My brother is just as brilliant as me. Fishing on the lake one day, he noticed a bunch of blue corks bobbing around the prop of our outboard engine. He was driving, and he called me to the back of the boat.</p><p>"Hey Bruce, look at this," he said. We both looked at the prop and the corks, nobody looking at where we were going. "Where do think they're coming from?" We had yet to take the boat out of gear.</p><p>"I have no idea," I told him. And I didn't. It took us two geniuses five minutes to discover we were running along our own net, destroying it. Brilliant. (Is it possible I have the definition of that word wrong?) </p><p>In the interest of sharing something more about myself, I have to admit that I'm not the tallest man, at least not as tall as my sons. It doesn't bother me that I'm shorter than the lads — no Napoleonic complex for me. </p><p>Who cares how tall I am? When I was a young, single man, every girlfriend I ever had assured me that size is not all that important. I thought it was kinda strange that they all said almost exactly the same thing.</p><p>"Don't worry, Bruce, " they would sigh. "Size isn't all that important, anyway."</p><p>I certainly felt reassured about my height.</p><p>Yeah, brilliant.</p><p>Countries can be just as brilliant. It's a terrifying thought that a decision to go to war could be a wrong decision because the outcome can be so horrific. There must be another way. Look under the bed, take the boat out of gear, it doesn't matter how big you are.</p><p>The geniuses who run all the countries involved in the Syria horror show need to find a peaceful way. Let's not fall down the stairs. It's hardly funny.</p><p>Bruce Benson is a Canadian writer and journalist who makes Hendersonville his home. Reach him at bensonusa@ hotmail.com.</p>